Unhurried
by You-Are-A-Fridge-With-Wingss
Summary: Stiles doesn't do anything for himself anymore. Between werewolf shit and school (and Stiles wonders when werewolf shit started coming first) getting even five minutes to sleep is hard, let alone a few solid, uninterrupted hours, just for him. (In which Stiles likes open mic nights, and doodles on his calender instead of naming events)(T for language)


Stiles doesn't do anything for himself anymore.

Between werewolf shit and school (and Stiles wonders when werewolf shit started coming first) getting even five minutes to sleep is hard, let alone a few solid, uninterrupted hours, just for him.

So, when he sees the open-mic night flyer, plastered onto a lamppost on the way to the shop to pick up milk, he doesn't really give it a second thought. Last year, before… everything, it seems, Stiles would have paused. He would have read the date, checked his calendar, marked it with a little doodle of a music note. He likes open mic nights- there's always an unhurried sort of passion in people singing for joy, not work, even if he doesn't even play an instrument himself.

Well, aside from the drums, and in all his evenings sitting in the back of a dimly lit café filled with indie kids in beanies and oversized coats, he's never yet heard anyone get up for a drum solo.

So, he buys the milk, and forgets the flyer was ever there. Until he doesn't.

Lying in bed, the next Tuesday, he remembers the flyer. He shifts the English book he was supposed to be reading from it's folorn resting place on his chest, and pulls his macbook towards him. Booting it up, he opens google chrome, cause god forbid he use internet explorer, and searches for beacon hills open mic. He finds one almost immediately, in a small café called the cherry tree that he remembers selling mostly fruit-flavoured tea and smelling vaguely of patchouli. He also recalls a quite good turnout the last time he went, and so, for the first time in a year, he pulls out his calendar, and carefully draws a small pair of quavers next to the date, tomorrow. He doubts he'll forget, but it is a soothing, ritualistic sort of action, the physical incarnation of his decision.

The next day, he's even more distracted in class, tapping on his desk. Scott sends him odd looks in economics, and asks him on the way out why he was acting so weird today. Stiles replies with an odd look, and a rambling conversation about a topic he doesn't really care about, and certainly can't remember now. He doesn't like Scott knowing about the music, he always dismissed it as "hippie bullshit". Scott likes music, but the cherry tree would be a little too flaky for even him. The day drags by until the final bell, where Stiles drives to the library to at least attempt to get some work done. At a quarter to six, he accepts defeat and gathers his books, and chucks them unceremoniously in the back of the jeep. The drive to the café is accompanied by low music played through the tinny old car stereo, and a vague sense of pride that he even remembered where it was.

A small swelling of excitement starts when the hanging sign depicting the silhouette of a tree comes into sight, and by the time he walks into the softly lit room Stiles is bouncing on his toes. The café is just how he remembered it, all hardwood floors and tables made out of recycled wardrobe doors. He buys a peppermint tea from the cashier with a blue streak in her hair, and a scary spike in her nose, and nestles himself in a corner, hiding behind a textbook as the café slowly fills up. An hour later, at around seven, the first person wanders up, a skinny hipster guy with combat boots and an oversized white t-shirt, reading irate poetry in a voice so fast Stiles can hardly follow out of a black moleskin notebook. Next comes a girl with an angry voice and a pixie cut, with a cover of a punk song Stiles has never heard of. More poetry, more songs, blur together, but Stiles listens to each and every one. Around an hour in Stiles's tea is gone, and he needs something to occupy his hands, so he makes his way over to the counter to get another. As he moves past a burly guy who looks like he should own a Harley Davidson, he almost walks straight into a girl picking her way carefully towards the stage.

"Sorry" Stiles mumbles, and she looks up at him, a mere five foot two inches of delicate limbs, pale skin, and a wild shock of honey blonde curls tumbling to her lower back. She smiles at him, and he blinks slowly at he wide, doe-like brown eyes.

"That's okay" she says almost at a whisper "I should have been watching where I was going." Two blinks back at him, and she's carefully hoisting the guitar case he didn't see before, turning in a whirl of curls, flirty red skater dress, and light denim jacket. Stiles returns to his seat.

He forgets the tea.

She's climbing the stairs as Stiles sits down, switching places with a tired looking girl and her ukulele. The room watches as she sets down her guitar case, toes it open with a brown combat boot while simultaneously adjusting the microphone stand, lowering it. A chuckle runs around the room, and when she's finished, she hops up onto the stool, rests her guitar over her knee.

"Every time" she declares with a half-grin, one side of her mouth quirking up, and another laugh circles. Everyone obviously knows her, and for the first time Stiles feels out of place. She offers no more introduction. She smiles, and ducks her head over the guitar, her hair falling in front of her face and picking out a melody he doesn't recognise until she begins to sing. It's everybody's got somebody but me, but she's transposed it into a minor key, making the cheery song sound melancholy. Her voice is high, soft without being breathy, unwavering on the high notes. It suits the minor key. She finishes the song, and takes her time packing up her guitar, and hops down the stairs.

Stiles' eyes follow her as she returns to her seat. For the next three acts he spends more time watching her than the performers, he lips parted slightly in interest and the elevated foot of her crossed legs bouncing ever so slightly. He knows full well that she can see him watching her, but he doesn't care. Stiles is not the type to deny himself small pleasures.

He finally plucks up the courage to talk to her. Makes his way over, settles into the seat opposite without waiting for an invitation. She turns to him, one eyebrow raised in question, her hair falling softly over the shoulder her head is angled towards.

"You were very good up there. You're talented. I…" Stiles stumbles over his words, trails off. "Stiles, I'm Stiles" he finishes awkwardly. She examines him for a moment longer, then smiles a little and replies.

"Rowan."

**A/N: sorry, just trying to get back in the swing of things. Probably a oneshot, tell me if you want a continuation. My metaphorical door is always open for any queries, criticisms and general chats. Oh, and i dont own teen wolf, so please dont sue.**

**I know Stiles is so ooc but i really fancied trying out this style of writing.**

**Voice Match for Rowan- Tessa Violet's over of everybodys got somebody.**


End file.
